


Voice

by FracturedAspect



Series: Life [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, Discussions of Aftermath, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Gen, Graphic-ish Hacking, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Starvation, Non-Consensual Behaviour Modification/Mind Control, Non-Sexual Mind Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 15:26:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14855355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FracturedAspect/pseuds/FracturedAspect
Summary: Bluestreak talks endlessly - until he doesn't. What caused the young gunner to change so suddenly and how do they fix it?





	Voice

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings apply, please read the tags or the notes at the end.

Jazz noticed it first, unsurprisingly.

As third in command, as well as the most personable of the officers and well trained on information gathering, it was his job to monitor the psychological welfare of the crew, both as a whole and individually. That, and his naturally inquisitive personality, was why he didn't shrug it off when he saw Bluestreak shuffle dejectedly into the rec room to look for his shift assignments.

Besides, Prowl would kill him if he failed to look after the kid.

“Hey, Perceptor, what's up with Blue?” Jazz asked the science mech.

The scientist blinked at him, taken aback by the sudden question. Skyfire and Wheeljack were engaged in a lively debate about some scientific fact or other, leaving Perceptor as the only readily available target for interrogation.

“Nothing, I don't think. I haven’t really talked to him in a few days.” The scientist sounded bemused, casting a glance over to the gloomy mech who was studying the duty roster.  “That is odd, actually. He usually runs deliveries up to the labs and stops to chat then, but I haven't heard from him at all.”

Jazz raised an optic ridge, carefully hiding his annoyance. Primus, did he wish that most of the bots on this ship weren’t unobservant little glitches. Perceptor could be as discerning as Ratchet and Red Alert combined when it came to science, but somehow managed to completely miss out of character behaviour by a colleague.

“How long's it been since he's talked ta ya?” Because let's face it, it was Bluestreak who did the talking. Usually at length, not that Jazz minded. Out of the corner of his visor he watched the mech in question leave without waving hello, or even looking up at them. He also, the Ops mech noted, didn't grab a cube of energon.

“I’m not sure. Probably sometime around that party we had a couple weeks ago.” Perceptor shrugged and turned back to his friends.

Jazz let him drop the topic, knowing there wasn’t much more he could get out of the scientist. The science department had a finicky relationship with the rest of the Ark, of which Bluestreak was an outgoing member, so their social circles didn't tend to cross. If he wanted to know more – and he did; it was his _job_ , and Prowl had all but adopted him besides, which made the kid Jazz's responsibility as well – then he'd have to talk to Bluestreak, or one of his friends.

Bidding goodbye to the science trio, Jazz strolled through the Ark with his typical ease, processor whirring away out of sight. People liked to think that he and Prowl were a good match because Prowl calculated everything while he acted on impulse, but they were all wrong. Jazz deliberated his actions and their possible consequences almost as much as his bonded, just using a different set of parameters. Prowl relied on logic and percentages while Jazz used past experience and instinct.

Optimus had asked him once if it bothered Jazz that everyone saw him as easygoing and impulsive. Jazz had simply smirked. “I’m an Ops mech.” He replied. “It's not a job I can leave at the door when I get back. If people I’ve lived with for vorns can’t tell when there's more to me than that, I’m doing something right.”

Right now, instinct was telling him that something was up. Bluestreak and Prowl were close, and the younger would usually have no problem confiding in the second in command but this time he hadn't gone to Prowl for advice or a willing audience. Not necessarily alarming, but if Perceptor was right about Bluestreak having been upset for around two weeks then something else had to be going on. It didn't take much to get Bluestreak to spill when he was upset, so for him to still be upset now? Either no-one had asked – which would have probably just upset the gunner more – or people had asked and Bluestreak refused to answer.

The first option was worrying. The second was far, far worse – it wasn't like Bluestreak to bottle things up. Both warranted further investigation before Jazz tried talking to Blue about it. Quirk of being an Ops mech; he liked to have all the facts before going in. Best way to take someone by surprise.

Decision made, Jazz altered his course to the shooting range Ironhide had set up. Hound and Trailbreaker were both there for the standard evaluation every mech underwent to make sure they were more likely to hit the ‘Cons than other Autobots.

His audials picked up the sound of gunfire as he left the Ark, and he transformed and sped towards the Autobots, relishing the freedom to go fast and enjoy the road underneath his tires.

Sadly it didn't last long, and he pulled up and transformed again next to Ironhide, who was overseeing the exercise with sharp optics. “Mornin', Ironhide.” Jazz greeted cheerfully. “Have ya spoken to Blue lately?”

Not his most subtle opening ever, but then Ironhide was a friend, and Jazz usually made an effort not to pull one over on his friends.

“Nah.” The gruff mech shook his head. “There haven't been any missions since our last victory over the ‘Cons and his eval is scheduled for next week.”

“Savin' the best for last?” Jazz teased. Ironhide snorted.

“Getting the slaggers who can't shoot straight outta the way first. Then when I inevitably have to sign ‘em up for extra sessions they won't run out of time to practice afore the next disaster.” The warrior corrected. “You want ta talk ta them?” He nodded discreetly at Hound and Trailbreaker, who were paired up at the other end of the range.

Jazz didn’t bother pretending to be surprised, but he did affix a falsely innocent expression to his faceplates. Prime's bodyguard was more observant than most people took him for, much like Jazz.

“Yer worried about Bluestreak and came out here, on duty, for no obvious reason. Figures you'd want to interrogate the poor kid's friends. Shall I call ‘em over?”

“Interrogate is such an unfriendly word.” Jazz shot back lightly. “A friendly chat is all, an' on that note, please don't call them over. They'll think they're in trouble.”

“Aren't they?” Ironhide questioned, shooting him a canny look. “You here officially?”

“It is ah part of mah job to monitor an' investigate the mental health of people in the Ark, yes.” Jazz said slowly, choosing his words carefully. “Doesn't mean they're in trouble, an’ Ah wouldn't skip straight to Blue's friends if Ah didn't think it could be serious.”

Ironhide relaxed imperceptibly, shooting Jazz a smirk. “Jus' wanted to be sure you weren’t acting like a overprotective creator, is all.”

“Ah know how ta be objective, Ironhide!” Jazz's engine spluttered in shock or indignation, he wasn't sure which. “And Ah'm no creator.”

The warrior shrugged, uncaring. “Prowl might as well be his creator and you're bonded to Prowl, ergo, you’re his creator too.”

“Make ah creator, tha' does not.” Jazz muttered sullenly. Ironhide rumbled, amused, before mercifully changing the subject.

“Yer not completely wrong 'bout Bluestreak, I reckon. Trailbreaker’s about as average as normal on the range but Hound's been distracted.”

“Worried?”

“Yeah, but not jus' worried. I asked what was eating at him earlier, but he wouldn’t give me a straight answer. Tried to pass off some slag ‘bout a poor recharge cycle.”

“Guilty conscience?” Jazz mused out loud. “Most likely reason for not wantin' ta speak up. Worry alone wouldn't make him clam up like that.”

“Unless the kid asked him not to talk.” Ironhide pointed out a little defensively. “Hound's not the sort of mech to do things that'd give him a guilty conscience.”

“No he isn't.” Jazz agreed quietly. “Maybe they had a row an' he said a few things he wished he hadn't, Primus knows we've all done it.”

“True enough. Pre-battle tension’s resulted in more than a few nasty scraps. It's not hard to want to snap at your kid, either. He can't half go on.”

Jazz shot him a glare, and Ironhide shrugged. “I'm not tryin' to criticize, the kid's perfectly nice. You jus' need the patience of a saint to never get short-tempered with him.”

The saboteur snorted and shook his head. “Right. Ah'm off to see what Hound has ta say about Blue.”

Hound, sadly, didn't have much to say about Bluestreak. Jazz got him to confirm that Bluestreak had stopped talking in his usual unstoppable manner after the party, but – interestingly – Hound hadn’t noticed him start to look really unhappy until a few days after. It set more than a few alarm bells ringing for Jazz, whose previous theories had all centred around Bluestreak being quieter because he was unhappy, not the other way around.

Trailbreaker hadn't been much better for information, but he had been willing to share his concerns. Hound had escaped as soon as he could manage, and the other Autobot had used the spare moment with Jazz to mention what he knew. Apparently Trailbreaker had asked Bluestreak what was wrong but the gunner had only said that he was fine before proceeding to avoid Trailbreaker ever since.

“I haven’t been able to corner him to try and get him to talk to me yet.” The mech said apologetically. “I asked Hound what was wrong with Bluestreak and he said he had no idea, but he looked kind of ... I don't know, guilty? Not really guilty like they'd argued or something, but like he suspected something. And it's not really obvious or anything because Bluestreak hasn't spent much time around other people since he got really quiet, but I think Hound's been avoiding Blue. Wouldn't help me try to get Bluestreak to talk, just came up with excuses or other things he had to do.”

“Right. Thanks for tellin' me all this, Trailbreaker.” Jazz said, letting the new information sink into his mental map of what happened.

“No problem.” Trailbreaker said. “I mean, Hound's my friend and I don't want to get him into trouble or anything but ... Blue's been really down. You'll make sure he's alright, won't you?”

“Course I will.” Jazz said easily. “‘S my job to make sure everyone's alright. ‘Sides, can you imagine the warpath Prowl would go on if Ah didn't do mah best to help?” Trailbreaker shuddered, and Jazz didn't think it was entirely feigned. “Now, one last question; ya think Hound is the one who upset Bluestreak?”

Trailbreaker hesitated, clearly conflicted. “Not on purpose.” He finally admitted. “I could be wrong but I think –”

“Hey, calm down.” Jazz interjected when Trailbreaker’s vocaliser spat static under the strain. “Whatever happened, it's not the end ah the world. We'll talk ta Blue, get it all sorted, an' if Hound's done somethin' wrong then he'll get punishment detail but it won't last forever an' it's best if we get it figured out before anyone else gets hurt by what happened.”

“Yeah.” Trailbreaker said weakly, armour shuddering as he made a conscious effort to relax and calm himself. “Yeah.” He repeated, slightly stronger. “That party we had, to celebrate surviving the ‘Cons again, it was right after that Blue started being really quiet. I remember Bluestreak left quite late, after most of the people just there to relax, but before the twins and a few others started to get really overcharged because he had a shift the following day. He said he was going to walk around the disused section of the Ark where he wouldn’t disturb anyone to get rid of the worst of the energy.”

“An' you think that's where somethin' happened.” Jazz said quietly.

Trailbreaker nodded glumly. “Hound was one of the group who got really overcharged.” The words had the weighted tone a of confession to them. “But he's a bit of a lightweight, so he left not that much after Bluestreak, with a few others. The twins refuse to serve anyone after a certain point. If something happened … the memories are probably fragmented, judging by how far gone he was. It would explain would explain how he's acting, if he remembers Bluestreak upset and suspects he caused it.”

* * *

Jazz raced back to the Ark, not enjoying the ride nearly as much as he had on the way out. Hound and Trailbreaker hadn't eased his suspicions at all, leaving him with more and more unanswered questions. Trailbreaker’s theory had credit – though it was far to early to be guessing what happened – but it didn't explain why Hound said Bluestreak hadn't started looking upset until a few days after the party. And the whole thing still left him with no idea what, exactly, had happened, only circumstantial evidence and Bluestreak’s change of behaviour to raise concern.

He made his way to Optimus’s office as soon as he reached the Ark, stopping only to pop his head in the monitor room and ask Red Alert for a favour. The Prime was in his office, surrounded by his usual piles of datapads. Jazz was so glad his office was practically the Ark itself. It meant that paperwork was not his main duty, thank Primus.

“Jazz.” Optimus greeted cheerfully, no doubt thankful for the distraction. He became more serious as Jazz closed the door behind him; Optimus usually kept it open, trying to encourage bots to approach him if they had a problem or needed help. Jazz closing it meant that he had a problem, and that this was not going to be a light-hearted visit.

It didn't take long to explain what he'd learned, but by the time Jazz had finished Optimus was frowning, optics solemn as he considered Jazz's report.

“You are right to be concerned.” Optimus began. “It doesn't match up with what I know of Bluestreak, either, and it's important that we pay attention when things don’t match up so we can help them before it becomes a serious problem.”

Jazz sighed. “But?”

“If Bluestreak will not tell anyone what the problem is, there is nothing we can do. I can't authorise an investigation without Bluestreak reporting an issue or proof of misconduct on the part of Hound or whoever else was involved.”

“Cliffjumper and Tracks.” Jazz interjected. “And Ah know ya can't. Primus, it's not like Ah wan' there to be an investigation – Ah wouldn't wan' ta put Blue through that if Ah could avoid it, and Ah wouldn’t wan' somethin' bad enough to require an investigation ta happen ta him. This whole thing is jus', it doesn’t fit and Ah can't shake it. Bein' quiet, cuttin' himself off from everyone, that’s not how Bluestreak copes an' Ah don't know what caused it.”

“No.” Optimus said quietly, troubled. “Bluestreak prefers to forget his troubles by talking to others and in doing so leaving no room for anything else in his processor. If you wish to know why he is upset then I can only suggest that you try talking to him.”

Jazz snorted. “Bluestreak is his own worst enemy when it comes to trying to hide his problems. If he hasn’t cracked under the pressure from his own processor by now, there's no way he'll talk jus' because someone asks.”

“You don't know until you try.” Optimus refuted gently. “And … it may be the only way to discover what happened. There isn't any surveillance in that part of the Ark, as you well know.”

“No, but there are cameras monitoring the corridor outside the soldiers’ quarters.” Jazz said with a tired grin. “Ah asked Red Alert for ah favour; Ah know he records everythin' his cameras stream ta his personal terminal for backup purposes, so Ah asked if he could go through the footage, see if he could spot anythin' odd wit' Blue or the mechs Trailbreaker said might be involved.”

Optimus sighed, but his optics gave away his amusement. “Ever the saboteur, Jazz.”

Jazz tipped an imaginary hat and was about to retort when they were interrupted by a comm. from Red Alert.

“Prime, sir.” Red Alert sounded frazzled, which wasn't unusual given his paranoia, but it wasn’t that long since they defeated the Decepticons and it was rare for his paranoia to kick in so soon after a victory. “I've something to report regarding Bluestreak. Have you talked to Jazz this morning?”

“I have and he's informed me of his concerns. He's still here in my office, in fact.” Optimus answered calmly, eyeing Jazz's tense posture with carefully hidden trepidation. Jazz might protest that he didn't care about Bluestreak nearly as much as Prowl, but the truth was the Ops mech was just as protective of the younger Datsun as his 2IC. “What do you have to report?”

There was silence on the line as Red Alert hesitated, and the two officers felt their misgivings increase exponentially.

“I'll bring a copy of the relevant footage to your office, Prime.” The security officer finally answered, voice strained, before hurriedly disconnecting the line.

Optimus tried not to wonder what could bring out this reaction in Red Alert as he and Jazz waited in tense silence.

It was barely a few kliks before Red Alert slipped in, closing the door behind him, and handed the datapad to Optimus without a word. At first glance he seemed fairly normal, but Jazz could detect an undercurrent of tension that nearly made the mech’s hands shake as he crowded round the desk so he could watch from over Optimus’s shoulder.

The video file wasn't long; it was basically a shot of Bluestreak walking down the corridor, arms cradled to his chest and doorwings held stiffly, as if he was in pain. Which he was, judging by the electricity sparking from a compartment on his chest which had obviously been forced open.

The horrifying cascade of realizations had barely started to flicker through Optimus’s processor as Jazz lurched up and lunged for the door. A second too late, Optimus reached out to restrain his 3IC, but he only had a moment to curse the saboteur’s speed before there was a loud crash as Jazz hit the floor. Red Alert stood over the saboteur, gripping a medical tool tightly enough to make his servos creak.

“Red Alert,” Optimus began slowly, his processor flashing imminent shutdown warnings on his HUD, “Why do you have a medical tool designed to force mechs into emergency stasis on you?”

“Easy way of putting mechs out without damaging them. Useful backup plan.” Red Alert said, staring at Jazz's body. “I anticipated his reaction so I brought it with me just in case.”

Optimus was reminded of why Red Alert didn't go into the field unless absolutely necessary when his servo began to shake.

“Well, thank you for your prompt response. I don't think we need Jazz in the brig for attacking fellow Autobots to compound this situation.”

“Not least because we can't actually keep him there.” Red Alert said, forcibly drawing his optics away from Jazz. “It … was an Autobot, then, sir?”

“The fact that we haven't detected any Decepticon presence on board the Ark as well as what little Jazz has managed to learn from Bluestreak’s friends would seem to indicate so, though we know very little at this stage.” Optimus slumped in his chair a little, wishing for nothing more than for all this to be a bad recharge cycle. Sadly after all the atrocities he had borne witness to he knew better than to waste time on wishing for long. He pinged Ratchet with a brief summons and stood to retrieve the case of high grade he kept hidden here for particularly terrible days.

Setting out three empty cubes, he poured only a small amount in each one – they were, technically, on duty, but this wasn't anything like enough to make them tipsy, let alone overcharged.

Red Alert accepted his cube without complaint, a first for a mech so paranoid that he wouldn’t drink high grade for fear of losing control, and that said more about how much this had affected him than anything else. Outside of paranoia-related fits, which was as much a result of his glitch as it was his personality, Optimus had never seen him so emotional. Like Prowl, Red Alert could usually maintain professional distance where other mechs were concerned.

Ratchet chose that moment to enter, catching onto the sombre mood within an astrosecond. Cursing, he scanned Jazz's prone form. “Optimus, why do you have your 3IC offline on the floor?” The medic demanded once he'd made certain that Jazz was in no immediate danger.

“Red Alert wisely incapacitated Jazz before he felt the need to extinguish the sparks of several of our crew.” Optimus explained calmly, immune to the medic’s ire through long exposure.

“How did he manage that?” Ratchet said disbelievingly from where he was still crouched by Jazz before turning to Red Alert. “How did you manage that?”

Wordlessly, Red Alert held out the medical tool, not flinching when Ratchet snatched it and started swearing profusely, aimed mostly at bots who thought they could just help themselves to all his tools, it wasn't like he needed them in case of emergency or anything.

“Ratchet,” Optimus interrupted the medic's tirade, “While I appreciate your dedication to making sure everyone knows how much you hate people stealing your tools, could you perhaps turn your attention to the matter that forced us to incapacitate Jazz in the first place?”

Ratchet subspaced the tool and stood, sharp optics taking in every inch of the exhausted slump of Prime's frame and Red Alert's uncharacteristic quiet as he nursed the small quantity of high grade Optimus had given him. Eyeing the other two cubes clearly meant for Optimus and himself, the CMO pulled out another chair for himself. “That bad?” He remarked dryly with the resigned humour of someone who had become accustomed to having atrocities thrown his way.

Optimus grimaced and slid the datapad towards him, watching in silence as Ratchet absorbed the contents. The medic didn't outwardly react as the footage ended, sitting in stillness for long moments and giving Optimus the distinct impression of the calm before the storm.

He was proven right when a sharp motion from Ratchet sent the datapad crashing into the wall, breaking with an unsatisfying clang as the metal bent out of shape. Red Alert flinched at the sudden violence; Optimus did not. Anger was just how Ratchet reacted to nasty surprises, and wounded mechs, and people ignoring their health and failing to visit the medbay after sustaining damage. This just happened to fall in all three categories.

“Feel better?” Optimus asked wryly, already knowing the answer.

“No.” Ratchet glared, clearly incensed, as he grabbed his cube and downed the (very little) high grade in it. “I want more.”

“We're on duty.” Optimus said, though tellingly he didn't outright deny the medic.

Ratchet snorted. “Fat lot of good that did Bluestreak, it didn't stop someone hacking him! No wonder Jazz reacted like that; can you imagine what Prowl will do when he finds out?”

Optimus could imagine exactly how Prowl would react, and it involved one or more mechs being slowly and painfully offlined, most likely with Jazz's help. Ratchet must have seen the comprehension in his optics, because he nodded. “I'd help them, too, if it came to that.”

The Prime gaped at Ratchet, because in all their years as friends he'd never heard Ratchet so willing to ignore his vow to do no (serious) harm; he'd fought before, like all the rest of them, but he was a medic first and always agonized over killing.

“Don't look at me like that.” Ratchet snapped, now angry for an entirely different reason. “I won't be the only one, not by a long shot. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker are fond of him, and they're only the beginning. Bluestreak is well liked and a lot of mechs will be angry about what happened on principle. Whoever did this is going to be in serious danger.”

“It's going to be a nightmare.” Red Alert said quietly from his corner. “Between Jazz and Prowl, who are both officers, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker who can pull really cruel pranks and don't particularly care about the consequences, everyone who's fond of Bluestreak, everyone who'll be angry and disgusted by what they did, and Ratchet either refusing to fix them or actively sabotaging them, whoever did this is going to wish they were in the Pit before long.”

“So they will.” Optimus said quietly, not entirely sure what he should feel. Some part of him tried to feel pity for the mech, but his processor would flag up an image of Bluestreak, walking back to his room hurt and alone, and the emotion would vanish before it had a chance to grow. Another, darker part of his mind, where the pain and bitter loss he'd experienced resided, just felt darkly satisfied. Mostly, he felt thrown off by Ratchet's uncharacteristic deadly intent.

“Spit it out, Prime.” Ratchet said, in a tone that dared Optimus to try judging him.

“I ... have never seen you react so strongly to a case like this before. Decepticons hack Autobot prisoners whenever they get the opportunity.”

“And the key word in that sentence is Decepticons.” Ratchet said, servos shaking with rage. “Not an overcharged Autobot, not this – betrayal.” Ratchet spat the word. “We are supposed to be safe among our comrades.”

Optimus could only find tired agreement in himself at that, although he still found himself somewhat unsettled by his friend's attitude. Red Alert was frowning, though. “How ... did you come to the conclusion that an Autobot is responsible, Ratchet? Neither myself not Optimus mentioned Jazz's initial report or suspicions.”

The faint suspicion was easy to hear, but Ratchet only snorted. “You left the timestamp on the video. The Decepticons are currently too busy licking their wounds to bother with us and half the Ark was indulging in high grade that night. It wasn't hard to draw conclusions.”

Silence fell over the office, no-one knowing how to respond to that declaration. Giving in to the medic's glare, Optimus poured them all more high grade, settling back with his own cube and drinking deeply.

“The next step is to examine Bluestreak and determine what exactly was done.” Optimus said once he felt able to continue. “Ratchet, you'll do a firewall and processor check?”

“And I’ll take a look at that port too – Bluestreak must have fixed it to some degree or we'd have figured out what was wrong a hell of a lot sooner, but he's no medic.” Ratchet confirmed. “Where is he now?”

“Downtime.” Red Alert answered.

“Then Ratchet should do the examination as soon as we're done here.” Optimus said, trying to sound more determined than he felt. “I'll be the attending officer.” He added at Red Alert's poorly concealed worry. The sudden look of relief was faintly amusing until Optimus remembered why he was so relieved.

“What about Jazz?” Ratchet frowned at the security officer as Red Alert asked that question. “He can break out of the brig. The only person who can reliably stop him is Prowl, and that will only last until Jazz tells him what's going on.”

“He'll be out for a while yet. Long enough to complete Bluestreak’s initial examination, at least.” Ratchet observed.

“And Jazz insisted on upgrading the security on my quarters so that not even he could break in; it should prove a challenge to break out of as well.” Optimus added.

“And Prowl?” Ratchet asked pointedly.

“We need one clearheaded officer available, at least until Optimus is no longer needed with you and Bluestreak in the medbay.” The security officer argued.

“I will inform Prowl once Bluestreak’s examination is complete.” Optimus cut off the debate. “It's standard procedure not to inform loved ones until the first stage of the investigation is complete anyway, although Prowl’s position as 2IC complicates things.”

“That, and the fact that it's hard to hide anything from that nosy slagger.” Ratchet snickered.

Optimus sighed. “Red Alert, while Ratchet and I are with Bluestreak you will have the mechs we suspect are involved taken to the brig to await questioning; Hound, Cliffjumper and Tracks. Do not inform anyone what they are suspected of, and if Prowl asks why they're being questioned use my authority. It's not unheard of for some officers to be left out of the loop in sensitive matters when the group who is in-the-know is very small.”

Hesitating, he added, “And have whoever guards them under orders not to let anyone talk to them, not even Prowl. If Prowl notices that Bluestreak and Jazz are unreachable while mechs are being held for a classified reason and suspects that the two are connected, I don't want one of them blabbing what happened before someone is there to stop Prowl from killing them.”

“I'll have Kup do it.” Red Alert said. “He’s not intimidated by anyone and he’ll follow orders. Prowl won’t be able to push past him.”

Optimus nodded his approval of the choice. “Good.” Standing, he continued, “Ratchet, I’ll see you in the medbay soon. Red Alert, keep an optic on the Ark for me and don’t hesitate to comm. if there is danger to life.”

“If Prowl figures us out, you mean.” Ratchet muttered as the two officers followed suit and filed out of the office, processors focusing on their task. Nearly alone again, Optimus looked down at Jazz's prone form tiredly, before slinging the smaller mech over his shoulder and walking through another door to his personal quarters and setting his 3IC down gently.

“I'll make sure he’s all right, Jazz.” The leader said quietly before leaving to see to his soldier.

* * *

Bluestreak had had a terrible two weeks. There was a big fight with the ‘Cons and while everyone else had been elated at their victory, Bluestreak had been left with the usual nauseating mix of anger, guilt and self-loathing dogging his processor while he pretended to be as happy as his friends.

Those feelings, bad as they were, were something Bluestreak could handle. Struggling with his non-violent nature once a battle was over with was quite familiar, though possibly only Jazz and Prowl knew how much it truly affected him, having made a deal with the gunner vorns ago; Bluestreak would come to them when it got too bad to deal with alone, and they would trust him to know when he needed help and leave him be if he didn't. It was an agreement Bluestreak had adhered to scrupulously; oddly enough, he now regretted that. No, what had made the last two weeks nothing short of the Pit was something else entirely.

After the party that Bluestreak had only barely attended, he'd been accosted by several overcharged mechs. That wasn’t a particularly uncommon occurrence. Some of the Autobots who hated the Decepticons felt that Bluestreak’s aversion to violence had less to do with the gunner's personal views and more to do with condoning the Decepticons' actions, which was something of a point of contention between them. Usually Bluestreak shrugged off the treatment; it never went past words and not particularly sincere ones at that, said in the haze of overcharge when it was too easy to throw around blame for the losses they had suffered.

This time had been different. It hadn’t been about his loyalties, for a start. That hadn't even been in question. It had been about how much he talked. Such a stupid thing, the sort a bully might have picked on when they were sparklings in the Youth Sectors, and utterly trivial in the scheme of things, when they relied on each other in battle every day.

Bluestreak couldn’t believe what they had done to him because of it. He just … couldn’t.

_He struggled against the servos holding him down, not as hard as he should have, his processors nearly glitching over the fact that this was really happening. The approaching mech smirked, cord in hand, as he forced open the cover for Blue's hardline connections, both medical and … not. The high-grade was making everything seem slightly slow, out-of-sync with reality, but an automatic diagnostic informed him that the cause of that was his processor functioning at less than optimum speed due to the overcharge still confusing his systems._

The gunner cringed at the memory, shame and mortification heating his frame until his cooling fans kicked on, CPU threatening to send him into forced recharge again to stop the memory cycle.

_The hardline connection was impossible to block, firewalls already down thanks to the high-grade, and Bluestreak felt utterly vulnerable in a way he’d never experienced as the other mech's mind lurked around his processor like black smoke. Then he felt utterly helpless as the foreign presence swept into him, through him, searching for specific pieces of coding and ripping them apart in a wave of agony that made Bluestreak convulse, sensor-net aflame._

_It felt wrong. The mech could see everything, his most private moments, and although he showed no inclination to try, Bluestreak couldn’t stem the unreasoning terror that that would change. That it would get worse. Error messages flashed as he tried desperately to throw up some firewalls, a defence, anything, without success. The other mech felt vaguely amused, oily and unpleasant, at Bluestreak's futile efforts to retain some privacy, but Bluestreak wouldn’t, couldn’t stop until his processor, overheating from the vicious assault, forced him to for the sake of preserving as much function as possible._

_For one wild, terrified moment, Bluestreak wanted to override it and force himself to overheat until he went into stasis lock just to make this stop, before his logic circuits reasserted themselves; there was no telling how much of his personality matrix would survive that and no matter how desperately he wanted to escape this, he feared destroying everything that made him Bluestreak, more._

In the privacy of his quarters, Bluestreak muffled a quiet keen. He'd been weak, so weak. He'd had a chance to stop the other mech but was too afraid to take it, too worried about losing himself. Wouldn't it be better if he was now a new person in a old body, someone who didn't have to live with knowing what it felt like to have someone inside your mind, taking away any defence or choice you might have?

_He’d crumbled, then, stopped offering any resistance weak though it might have been to the mech that was ripping his mind apart. He could only suffer numbly, hoping in the back of his processor that it was nearly over. Surely it was nearly over, because he didn't know how much more of this he could take. Yes, he'd survived the fall of Praxus, but that had happened around him, not to him. You'd think that when something like this happened, the pain and the ... the horror of it would drown everything else out, but that wasn't so. Bluestreak could still feel the servos holding him, could feel the pain from his broken compartment and the cord plugged into his hardline connection, making everything seem horribly real, if slightly surreal._

It had denied him even the escape of pretending that none of it was happening, and Bluestreak shook at the memory, hands pressing into the plating on his forearms as he lay curled up on the berth hard enough to dent. The self-inflicted ache did nothing to detract from the pain in his mind, or his spark.

_He'd staggered back to his shared quarters alone, pathetically glad that Hound was recharging in Mirage's quarters and he didn't have to look for somewhere else to stay while he fixed himself enough for his newly-implanted coding to shut up about keeping what happened a secret. Bluestreak desperately wished that the other mech hadn't thought to stop him from telling anyone else what happened, from even doing anything that might tip someone off. More than anything, he wanted to go to Prowl's quarters and curl up with his Creator-figures. They had a way of making him feel better. Pit, he’d take being allowed to go to the med-bay._

Bluestreak whimpered quietly. It had been unbearably lonely, unable to initiate a simple conversation, confined to as short answers as it was possible to give when others spoke to him. Talking was something he did almost constantly just to soothe himself, and being so restricted, so incapable of just telling someone what was wrong was another constant reminder of what happened.

_He'd walked around the Ark in a daze for the first few days after the … incident, blank rather than visibly upset thanks to the code restricting his behaviour, internally wishing that someone, anyone, would notice the difference in his behaviour and report it. A report meant an investigation, which meant no chance of someone not realising what had happened._

_But it seemed no one really noticed his shift in behaviour – that, or no one cared. Nothing was reported, only one person even asked about his sudden reticence – Trailbreaker – and he didn't find the situation suspicious enough to do something about it._

_Days passed with Bluestreak becoming more and more stressed, unable to get more than a few hours of fitful recharge, no longer able to hide his obvious unhappiness – and still, nothing happened in reaction to it. He hadn't seen Prowl or Jazz since the party, and wouldn't again until their duties caused them to cross paths. If the ‘Cons continued to keep their heads down, that wouldn't be for a while. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, while on good terms with him, weren't the sort to hunt him down if he seemed quiet._

_It seemed like he’d be stuck this way for a while. And that made it hurt all the more._

Curled on his berth, Bluestreak felt a surge of bitter hurt towards the mechs that had done this to him, left him isolated and alone and hurting and no-one even noticed. His cooling fans kicked up another notch as the anger caused him to heat up and his processor flashed more shutdown warnings at him. Blithely, he ignored them, grimly hopeful that forced recharge would allow him a cycle without replaying the memory fragments.

_He withdrew even more; before, he'd followed his usual routine even if he couldn’t really talk to others in the rec room, but now he spent as much time away from other mechs as he could get. It was easier than trying to deal with essentially being ignored. And if avoiding others meant that he occasionally skipped energon? Well at least collapsing from low energon levels would send him to the med-bay._

Vents hitching as his processor finally forced the gunner into a recharge cycle, Bluestreak relaxed on the berth as his systems offlined one by one, unaware that an impromptu meeting was being held about him in Prime's office that very moment.

* * *

Optimus Prime strode down the halls towards the soldiers quarters without pause, internally dreading what he would find. Two weeks, while insignificant by Cybertronian standards, was still no small time to go without support after such a traumatic event. And they still knew so little about what had happened; that Bluestreak had been hacked, yes, and they had suspicions about who was involved, but why did Bluestreak not come forward and tell someone what happened? Why didn't the mech or mechs who hurt him come forward and admit what they did? Why had no one realised what had happened sooner?

Some of those questions had answers that could be guessed at, but they didn't _know_ for certain, and it made Optimus uneasy about what else he might not know.

Sending an override code to Bluestreak’s door, the Prime stepped inside without pause, bending over a little so he would fit. The room was darkened, but not completely, leaving the outline of Bluestreak’s form visible in a foetal position on the berth. Stepping over, he ran a light scan over the gunner, noting with relief and sadness that he was in a forced recharge cycle – this would be easier if he were offline. Gently to avoid waking him, Optimus eased his hands underneath Bluestreak carefully and lifted the smaller Autobot, steadfastly ignoring the painful knot of emotion in his spark at the sight.

It was worse in the hallway, and Optimus could only be thankful that the corridor was empty. Bluestreak clearly hadn't been looking after himself; his paint was scratched, there was still mud and dirt on him from doing patrol that the gunner hadn't bothered to wash off, judging from his weight – or noticeable lack thereof – his fuel tanks were nearly empty, and there were dents in the shape of servos on his arms that Optimus was definitely going to be asking questions about once Bluestreak was up to it. The Prime could no longer deny his anger – how in the name of the Unmaker had no one noticed? – but Bluestreak had to come first, now.

Hurrying to the med-bay, he deposited Bluestreak in one of the private examination rooms that Ratchet had set up. The CMO was already waiting, looking grimly unsurprised at Bluestreak’s condition.

Ratchet got to work without any further delay, having Optimus settle the insensate Praxian on the medical berth and beginning a barrage of scans. Optimus watched silently from the corner, knowing better than to interrupt. His input wasn’t required right now; he was mostly there because, in cases like this, a second officer was required to be present so that no accusations of further misconduct could be thrown. Not that anyone in the Ark doubted Ratchet.

The physical damage took a relatively short time to fix; Ratchet hosed Bluestreak down to get the worst of the grime out, removed the dents from his arms (whilst wearing a thunderous scowl, and Optimus knew that Ratchet had followed the same line of thought as he had) which only left replacing Bluestreak’s hardline connection socket. That took a little longer and by the end of it the gunner was beginning to boot up, sub-protocols clearly onlining him in case he was about to be hacked again.

Optimus suppressed the uncharacteristic urge to punch something.

Ratchet took a step back, giving the younger mech his space as he booted up, optics onlining to find the bright med-bay instead of his own quarters. Bluestreak didn't panic, a sparkbreaking expression of hope crossing his faceplates instead before settling into a semblance of neutrality.

Under Ratchet's efficient if subdued direction, Bluestreak underwent another series of system diagnostics before the medic pulled back, taking a seat and getting Optimus to do the same so they were all at optic level with one another once Bluestreak had propped himself up.

“Bluestreak.” Ratchet began, gentle in a way that Ratchet-the-intimidating-CMO didn’t usually bother to be. “You're in the med-bay. I'm going to ask you a series of questions; I need you to answer as honestly and accurately as you can. Can you do that for us?” The gunner nodded, but Ratchet shook his head.

“Verbal answers, if you can.” The medic said patiently.

It took Bluestreak a moment, but eventually he spoke, the word laced with static due to disuse. “Yes.”

Optimus felt a thrill of foreboding down to his struts; he didn't think he'd ever heard the Datsun give a single word answer before. As signs went, it wasn’t a good one.

“Do you recognise us?” Ratchet gestured to himself and the Autobot leader, expression not giving away his thought processes.

“Yes.” Bluestreak repeated, waiting a beat before speaking again as if needing a moment before realising that elaboration might be expected. “Ratchet. Optimus Prime.”

Optimus opened a secure comm. line between himself and Ratchet so they could have a private conversation. :Well?:

:Well what?: Ratchet’s reply was near instantaneous, and as acerbic as normal.

:He's … very different.: Optimus said as tactfully he could manage.

:Yes, and that could be due to the hack or it could be a response to trauma – I _don’t know yet_ so if you could kindly frag off and let me do my job for more than five kliks …: The CMO spat back. Optimus wisely stayed silent.

Less than a second had passed outside their processors and Ratchet continued without missing a beat. “What time is it?”

“I … don't know.” Bluestreak muttered. “My internal chronometer isn’t functioning.”

:Yes, that's a result of the hack.: Ratchet said privately before Optimus had the chance to ask. :Timekeeping software actually ties into core programming which can be divided into two categories, personal and physical; system energy output, functionality, personality matrix and data files. Timestamps are used on data files.:

:So if his chronometer is malfunctioning, then there's no chance that he managed to …: Optimus trailed off sadly.

:Repel the attack? None.: Ratchet’s voice was hard. :For his core programming to be affected whoever did this must have pulled down enough firewalls to lay his processor bare. Bluestreak wouldn't have been able to hide anything.:

“When I examined you I found damage to the armour plating on your forearms. Do you remember sustaining that damage?”

Bluestreak’s eyes dropped to his now dent-free arms. “Yes.” Sluggishly he moved, cradling them to his chest and placing each hand on the other arm's plate in what suddenly looked like a very familiar pattern. Optimus wasn't the only one who saw the connection.

“Why did you do that?” The words could so easily sound accusing, but there was no judgment in Ratchet's voice, just steady patience.

“Memory cycle.” Bluestreak murmured after a quiet moment.

“... I also found damage to your hardline connection port.” Ratchet said, still so strange with a gentle voice instead of the usual curses. “Do you remember sustaining that?”

Optimus wished there was a nicer way of asking that question when Bluestreak cringed, doorwings tight to his back. “Yes.”

There was silence for a moment as Ratchet collected himself, preparing the questions that were to come, before speaking again. “The next questions I need to ask may be upsetting. I know it will be hard,” he added quickly when Bluestreak started to shrink in on himself, “and you are in no way obligated to answer, but it will help me ensure your recovery is smooth if I know the answers. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Bluestreak answered, vocaliser wavering.

“When did you sustain the damage to your hardline connection port?” Ratchet asked carefully.

“In the early hours of the morning, after the last party.” Bluestreak’s reply was faint, but steady. The gunner had drawn his legs up to his chassis and was staring fixedly into his lap, but if not looking at them helped the Praxian deal with what they were asking of him then so much the better.

“Have you used your hardline port outside a medical capacity prior to that?”

“No.” Optimus winced a little at the flat answer, spark reaching out to the smaller mech. Hardline interfacing could be potent, much more so than tactile interfacing, but whether Bluestreak would ever be able to find hardline interfacing pleasurable after this experience only time would tell.

“How many mechs plugged into your hardline port?”

“One.”

Ratchet hesitated. Then, “You are aware of the uses for hardline connections?”

“Either between friends or creator and creation as an expression of trust or intense emotional communication, or between partners as a means of reaching an overload.” Bluestreak recounted an abbreviated version of Ratchet's own explanation of the subject almost word-for-word.

“Did the mech in question force you to overload, either through tactile or hardline methods?”

“No.” Bluestreak’s answer was, as far as Optimus could see, truthful. A sidelong glance at Ratchet confirmed that the medic thought the same.

:I found no evidence of recent overload in his systems.: The medic said privately. :There's always a margin for error but given his reaction – or lack of one – this particular worry can probably be moved down the list.:

:So he didn’t suffer sexual assault?: Optimus confirmed.

:I didn’t say that. But whoever did this didn’t force Bluestreak to take pleasure from it.: Out loud, Ratchet continued, “Did the mech or mechs involved with the incident become aroused or overload because of what happened to you?:

“No.” Optimus was getting increasingly unsettled by Bluestreak’s manner, that flat, dead tone chilling his spark. He’d seen mechs come from Decepticon torture cells with more fight in them. He almost hoped it was a result of the hack that altered Bluestreak’s behaviour, rather than the soldier being so damaged that this was just how he acted now. The thought that one of his own soldiers could be hurt so by his own comrades, was … not a pleasant one.

:Do you believe he is lying?: Optimus couldn’t resist asking.

:There’s nothing to indicate falsehood, but we can’t be sure. Mechs can have strange reactions to suffering trauma like this. The ones who did this to him will have to be questioned about that.: Ratchet’s voice could only be described as foreboding, and Optimus was suddenly struck with a vision of Ratchet, Prowl, and Jazz in the brig with the mystery mech, looming threateningly and preparing to use their various skills to extract information.

“Do you recall which mech plugged into you?” Ratchet asked, outwardly neutral aside for that compassion that seemed so out-of-place on the CMO. Not that Optimus believed for a second that he lacked compassion; but Ratchet the CMO wasn’t usually one for wearing his emotions openly. Ratchet the medic, however, seemed far more soft-spoken with certain patients.

Bluestreak stiffened completely. Whereas before he had been withdrawn, all the hurt pulled into himself with nowhere else to go but still willing to talk, if only barely; now he was wound tight, alert, guarded. Optimus suddenly realised how much Bluestreak must have trusted them, to answer questions about so painful a subject with no sign of that guard, that instinct to hide your hurt from the world lest it be used against you, or more commonly in those who had suffered this kind of violation, the urge to hide something that seemed shameful.

And Bluestreak had been violated. Not sexually, but it was a violation nonetheless. Someone had ripped apart the Datsun’s mind; torn down his every defence and laid every memory he’d ever had bare, without choice, without hope, without a means to fight back. Someone had held Bluestreak’s personality in their servos, everything irreplaceable about him besides his spark, and instead of being an act of trust and love between two bots who cared for one another it was an immense betrayal of trust, a shattering of safety and likely unimaginably painful.

The only way Optimus could imagine Bluestreak’s experience being more invasive and painful was if he'd been forced into a spark-merge as well, but since sparks that had undergone that horror tended to fail within a couple of joor and Bluestreak was clearly still online, the Autobot felt safe in ruling out that possibility.

“Yes.” Bluestreak ground out, optics deliberately focused away from them.

“Who –” Ratchet began hesitantly, clearly catching on to the touchy subject.

“No.” Bluestreak interrupted flatly, doorwings trembling faintly with some unidentified emotion. “ _No._ ”

Ratchet and Optimus shared a troubled glance.

:Do you want me to question him further?: Ratchet said, sounding as though he’d rather mutiny.

:Bluestreak’s wellbeing comes first.: Optimus said after a brief moment of thought. :We have leads to follow regarding the culprit, and it's not a time-sensitive matter. Do what you think best.:

“Okay.” Ratchet said to Bluestreak, not bothering to reply to Optimus. “Okay. You don’t have to tell us.”

Bluestreak relaxed only marginally, and didn’t say anything in reply.

“Your physical damage is fixed.” Ratchet continued. “But before you can be declared fit for duty I will need to take a look at your coding.”

“I know.” Bluestreak couldn’t quite hide the fear he felt.

“Medical ports only.” Ratchet tried to reassure the young gunner. “Less invasive.”

Nodding but looking less than convinced, the Datsun shifted uneasily.

“If there’s anything we can do to make this more comfortable for you …” Optimus interjected, trailing off hopefully. Obvious differences between this experience and Bluestreak’s last would help keep his processor from entering a memory cycle and might help the Datsun be less fearful of Ratchet jacking into his systems.

Bluestreak shook his head, forgetting Ratchet’s request that he speak out loud. Ratchet didn’t bother to correct him, just withdrawing a cable from his forearm and holding it out to Bluestreak. The gunner took it slowly, servos trembling slightly, and sat there silently for one klik, two, then three, while he wrestled with his fears. Finally, he sent the command to open his compartment and slipped the cable inside, stiffening as it latched into place with a soft snick.

Optimus watched closely as the two mechs went still. Bluestreak was tense, obviously still afraid nearly to the point of lashing out. One wrong move on Ratchet’s part would make the young gunner recoil.

It made Optimus seriously wonder what the mech had done to Bluestreak’s processor to cause that reaction. If it wasn’t sexual abuse then chances were it was for the purpose of hacking him, leaving behind coding that Bluestreak wouldn’t be able to fight. Bluestreak’s willingness to doing the processor check now when he was clearly still deathly afraid of it seemed to support that theory, if it was for the purpose of making sure that Ratchet found and removed it as soon as possible.

At least, if that were the case, then Bluestreak must still have enough coherency and independence to act within the bounds of the coding. It ruled out several of the nastier options Optimus knew of.

Several hours passed before Ratchet finally relaxed, releasing his intense concentration and starting the shutdown sequence for the hardline connection. Bluestreak barely waited for it to finish before pulling out the cord and closing his compartment, immediately hopping up off the examination table and stumbling from emotional exhaustion and his gyros recalibrating.

“Easy.” Ratchet interjected sternly, although Optimus could see he was still worried. “You're in desperate need of a decent recharge cycle and your systems have been under a lot of stress lately; I’m taking you off the active duty roster for two weeks, at least, with the possibility of going back to light duties after that. No arguing,” he added when Bluestreak looked defiant, “your systems need that long to readjust to intaking energon regularly again. What the slag were you thinking, starving yourself like that?”

Bluestreak winced, looking miserable and guilty. “Give someone a reason to force me into the medbay? I figured that once I was here you wouldn’t let me go without finding out what the problem was.”

Optimus frowned at the measures Bluestreak was forced to resort to. “You were prevented from telling anyone about what happened, then?”

“Telling, hinting, deliberately acting out of character or doing things that’s likely to lead to it being discovered.” Bluestreak clarified. “Wouldn’t let me just walk in here and sit around until Ratchet did something about it.” The words are almost light-hearted, but his manner is anything but. Ratchet clearly thought the same, if the barely concealed wince is anything to go by. No doubt he already felt responsible for not spotting a patient in need sooner.

“Wouldn’t not intaking energon to get yourself in the medbay count as trying to get the coding discovered?” Optimus asked Bluestreak but glanced at Ratchet.

Ratchet snorted. “Shoddy work. Probably found a loophole?”

Bluestreak nodded. “The coding required that I not talk unless it was essential for my duties or I was asked a direct question. Between choosing whether to lessen the risk of people noticing I was acting differently by avoiding the rec room or stop me from trying to land myself in the medbay, it prioritised the former.”

The subject matter was clearly getting to Bluestreak, whose doorwings were steadily falling into a depressed slump, instead of pride at managing to circumvent the coding at all, like Optimus might have expected.

“Bluestreak?” He asked gently, not wanting to upset the gunner more.

“Fine, I’m fine.” Bluestreak replied, sounding anything but. Optimus just looked at him sadly, not quite sure what to do next. At a pointed glance from Ratchet, he settled on saying, “Ratchet and I will inform Jazz and Prowl of the situation.”

Just for a second, the Datsun’s expression crumpled, but he nodded and swiftly left before Optimus could think of a way to try and alleviate the pain he’d unintentionally caused. And now he had to tell Jazz and Prowl what had happened.

It was going to be a long day.

* * *

Prowl did not do well with emotions entirely untethered to logic. It was the way his processor functioned; by calculating the odds for every problem, logical or emotional, and when he could find no reason to be feeling something his processor glitched trying to calculate unquantifiable variables.

So he was struggling to deal with the cold dread that had been creeping up on him for the last few hours. In a way, it made Ratchet’s call to the medbay a relief; at least now he had a reason to be afraid.

His first thought was that Jazz was hurt. It had been mentioned to him by people who were delivering their reports that the saboteur wasn’t doing his rounds as usual, and it wasn’t unknown for him to slip off to the Nemesis at random times to better take them by surprise. Optimus being absent from his office would seem to support that theory.

Ratchet had disproved that quite thoroughly, however, when he’d offhandedly mentioned that Optimus was fetching Jazz. That meant that whatever this was concerned them both, and more, Prowl had detected the tiniest note of pity in Ratchet’s voice.

There was only one mech Prowl could think of who was connected on a personal level with both him and Jazz and would cause Ratchet to shed most of his usual brash mask.

The medbay was as sterile as Prowl remembered, and completely empty at this time of day. Slipping into Ratchet’s office, Prowl found Optimus, Ratchet and Jazz already there, the latter glaring at their leader with surprising sincerity. Before the tactician could react to the strange situation the door hissed shut behind him, the door locking under Optimus’s authorisation with an unmistakably loud clank.

A distant part of Prowl’s processor cynically noted that now only Optimus had the power to unlock it – and Jazz clearly wasn’t happy with the Autobot leader right now.

Taking his cues from his partner, the tactician fixed Optimus with a frosty look. “What has happened, Optimus?”

When Optimus hesitated, Jazz snorted rudely. “Go on, Prime, tell him.”

At one point, Prowl would have chastised Jazz for that, not trusting the irreverent, happy go lucky SIC to act like that for more than shallow reasons. He knew his partner better than that these days, finding that when the informal saboteur used titles it was time to get serious.

“At Jazz’s prompting, Red Alert uncovered footage from the night of the victory party that suggested Bluestreak has been hacked. Ratchet has examined Bluestreak and determined that the evidence was correct and acted accordingly. Three suspects are currently in the brig awaiting questioning.” Optimus relayed the information as pertinently as he could, well aware that drawing it out would only cause Prowl trouble with his battle computer but wishing that he could soften the blow.

Prowl stayed utterly still as he absorbed the information, logic circuits trying to follow about thirty different thought processes at once and struggling to keep up. He wasn’t surprised when the first thing to leave his vocaliser was a purely emotional response, uninhibited by his overworked circuits. “You examined him on his own?”

It was a cross between a statement and a question because Prowl already knew the answer. Procedure was quite clear about loved ones not being present with hacked patients. That didn’t change the instant, visceral _need_ to have been there when Bluestreak was examined, to have held his youngling's hand and gone over his code right beside Ratchet so Prowl could be sure that no danger remained.

Instead Bluestreak had been forced to go through this alone, suffered in silence for two weeks while he was ignorant of Bluestreak’s welfare.

“We did.” Optimus confirmed. “It wasn’t such a risk in Bluestreak’s case, since our main suspects were Autobots, but there’s a chance that emotionally involved people might try something … inadvisable if their loved ones are programmed to insist that they are fine or beg for help escaping Ratchet’s examination.”

“I know the reasons.” Prowl snapped at his commander. It wasn’t the reason behind it that was giving him trouble.

Jazz sent Prowl a sympathetic look and addressed Optimus. “What were the results of his medical examination?”

Ratchet took over the conversation. “Physically, he’s fine. There was some damage to his compartment, cosmetic damage to his arms and he was low on energon, but other than that he’s as healthy as can be expected. I’ve put him on medical leave for the next two weeks at least, with the possibility of returning to light duties after that if he recovers quickly. His readings indicate that he was under a high level of stress for almost all of the last two weeks, unsurprisingly, so he needs to rest and relax as much as possible.”

Venting heavily, he continued. “Coding-wise, he’s fixed. I went through all of it, removed the additions, and updated his anti-virus while I was there; there’s nothing else I could conceivably do to help him in that department. Mentally …” Ratchet shrugged. “The virus was sloppily done. Mostly it prevented him from talking unless spoken to, although there were some stipulations about trying to avoid anyone discovering that he’d been hacked. Given that he usually chatters non-stop just to drown out memories of Praxus, I’m sure that the last two weeks have been stressful for him for more reasons than just being hacked.”

Prowl and Jazz glanced at each other in a moment of silence after Ratchet’s professional opinion, centuries of reading each other’s moods allowing them to communicate emotions with just a glance.

“What,” Prowl began, “do we do now? For Bluestreak.”

“Be there for him.” Ratchet said. “Now that he can talk, he might need to vent to you. If he doesn’t though, don’t push it; mechs who’ve … had their choice taken away like this, hacking, torture, whatever, they tend to find choice important. Choice can equal safety, in their minds, so trying to push him into anything is the absolute worst thing you could do. Bribe, reason, encourage, support, fine; demand, and I _will_ come after your afts.”

Jazz almost managed to crack a faint smile at that.

“Other than that, it’s important that he doesn’t isolate himself from others too much; it’s expected and perfectly natural to some extent, because before long the entire Ark is going to know what happened to him. He’s going to be in the centre of attention. Well-wishers, people outraged on his behalf, people wanting to know who they should beat up, more who just want to make sure that he’s okay. Dealing with that is going to be the last thing he wants to do, so you might need to run interference. Give him space if he needs it, make sure the others leave him alone if he needs peace and quiet, make sure he has normalcy, insofar as that’s possible.”

Ratchet hesitated, then said, “Make sure he intakes energon regularly. He starved himself because that was a way into the medbay that the virus didn’t stop him from using. I doubt he’ll do it again consciously but there’s always the chance that it’s become so ingrained that he’ll forget. The cosmetic damage to his arms was also self-inflicted during a memory cycle, so while there’s not a great chance of it happening again you should keep an optic open. On another note, neither Bluestreak’s systems nor his reactions support the theory that the assault was sexual in nature. We’ll have to question the culprit to be absolutely certain, but you should be aware that it is still technically a possibility until confirmed otherwise.”

Prowl knew that he wasn’t the only one who found that hard to swallow. Subtle shifts in Jazz’s body language suggested he'd switched to spec ops mode and was seriously contemplating the best way to hunt down the mech who hurt Bluestreak. Ratchet was fierce in the defence of his patients and was far from above petty revenge, as evidenced by his ability to deal with the twins. Optimus had a keen sense of justice and while utterly fair, would make sure that the culprit was punished to an appropriate degree.

Prowl didn’t know what to do or feel; it was too much to comprehend in a short space of time. The only thing he could do was fall back on his battle processor and run countless simulations for probable odds.

“Let us out.” Prowl commanded, standing suddenly. Jazz followed suit, trusting his lover to already have a plan.

“Prowl.” Optimus said, low warning in his tone. “I know you must be upset, but this should be handled by someone uninvolved.”

“Uninvolved?” Prowl questioned dangerously. “The entire crew of the Ark has known one another for vorns, no one is uninvolved.”

“As someone with a close connection to the victim you cannot question, investigate or sentence the culprit.” Optimus said sorrowfully.

“I know the regulations.” Prowl hissed. “I know that for all my cold-hearted reputation I cannot be unbiased in this, it’s quite evident when I change my mind about what punishment I’d like to inflict on those responsible every astrosecond. Fortunately for them, however, there is something that I wish to do more than inflict pain on those who dared to hurt my creation and regardless of you standing in my way, we _will_ be leaving to see Bluestreak now.”

“… I do not know where Bluestreak has gone.” Optimus finally said, feeling unexpectedly proud of the usually reserved tactician. One might imagine that he’d be annoyed at his SIC being willing to fight him, but he’d been trying to nudge the tactician towards finding something worth defying orders for, for a long time.

“Thankfully, I do.” Prowl said, shifting into a slightly more aggressive stance at Optimus’s non-answer. At his back, Jazz palmed something from his subspace – probably something explosive, to get them through the locked door.

Optimus couldn’t help the slightly surprised look at Prowl’s certainty that he was correct, but then, if anyone could guess where Bluestreak would go after something like this, it would be Prowl. Seeing no reason to deny them now, he sent the release codes to the door and stood back, wordlessly giving them permission and telling them that he wouldn’t stand in their way.

Prowl and Jazz waited no longer, leaping out of the door and taking off as fast as they were able.

“Are you sure that was wise?” Ratchet asked. “If I were them I’d be heading straight to the brig.”

“I don’t believe that Prowl was lying.” Optimus replied. “Besides, I’ve already commed Red Alert and asked him to watch them and inform me if they go near the brig.”

“Heh.” Ratchet said, amused at his leader’s compulsory backup plan making. “They’ll expect that, you know. Prowl because it’s a logical move and Jazz because he’s Spec Ops, they assume they’re being watched as a matter of course.”

“I’m counting on it.” Optimus said wryly. “Maybe it’ll make them think twice about breaking into the brig.”

* * *

:So where is Blue?: Jazz asked his partner as they tore through the corridors.

:Exactly where he would be if he’d been able to talk to us in the first place.: Prowl commed back. :We have an agreement with him regarding things he cannot deal with alone if you recall.:

Jazz gave no answer to that, just pushed himself faster now that he knew where Prowl was leading him.

They screeched to a halt outside Prowl’s quarters, ignoring the Autobots who were gaping at them as Prowl sent the access code and lunged inside, closing it behind them.

Inside, it was dark and quiet. Prowl couldn’t make out much of the room, but Jazz’s visor had night-vision capabilities and he could see Bluestreak’s form lying prone on the berth. Making no attempt to hide their presence, the two of them approached the gunner. His optics onlined as they stood near him, leaving an arm’s length between them in case Bluestreak would find being in grabbing distance stressful.

“Bluestreak?” Prowl questioned, vocaliser wavering only slightly. Bluestreak blinked up at them, looking miserable but still not saying a word. “Blue?” Prowl couldn’t keep the pleading out of his voice as he knelt to try and put himself on a level with the other Datsun.

“Prowl.” Bluestreak said back, vocaliser staticky with disuse and emotion but Prowl had never heard anything that filled him with so much relief. The gunner weakly lifted an arm and grabbed Prowl’s wrist, grip loose but so surprising that Prowl froze. “I’m sorry – I tried to tell you but it wouldn’t let me, stopped me from even passing you in the halls or going to your office to ask you about something else and I couldn’t –”

He was cut off abruptly as Prowl leapt onto the berth and hugged him, pulling them together so that Bluestreak’s helm rested in the hollow of Prowl’s throat like they hadn’t done since Bluestreak was much smaller. Even as Prowl manoeuvred them both into a comfortable position, the tactician was careful never to hold Bluestreak too tight and give the gunner enough space to pull back if he wanted.

Bluestreak showed no sign of wanting space; if anything, the way he clung to Prowl and wordlessly sobbed indicates the exact opposite.

Cybertronians don’t cry like organics do, by leaking fluid from their eyes. They cry with their voices, with low keens of pain or fear or wails of grief and loss.

Prowl held Bluestreak close as the other Datsun cried, mirroring the gunner's crushing grip with his own as he tried to comfort his creation. Something he now realised he’d called Bluestreak out loud – in front of Optimus and Ratchet.

That revelation was shoved to the side as Jazz climbed onto the berth with them, plastering himself to Bluestreak's back and stroking his doorwings soothingly. Their optics met over their sobbing creation's shoulder, shared emotions passing between them in a wave of _helplessness/sorrow/anger_ that they could do nothing about.

Slowly, slowly Bluestreak’s cries tapered off as he slid into an exhausted recharge, cradled protectively between his creators, and both of them knew without checking that they would do anything to help him recover from this – and Primus help anyone who tried to hurt their creation, because whatever happened, neither of them would allow Bluestreak to be hurt again. Not after they’d failed so spectacularly to protect him before, failed to notice the Bluestreak had been hurt even after the fact when he was quiet, withdrawn and clearly not recharging which stung like the Pit – agreement or not, there was no reason to all but ignore their youngling, so sure that he’d come to them if he needed it. It was unforgivably sloppy, and the two of them would happily spend the next thousand vorns making it up to Bluestreak.

No matter what, they’d be there.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Graphic-ish hacking, flashbacks, depression, non-sexual mind-rape and non-consensual behaviour modification/mind control, as well as discussions of aftermath, and implied/referenced self-harm and starvation.


End file.
